


The Adventure of the Crimson Dream

by Arcadias_Fire



Series: The Strange Path [5]
Category: British Actor RPF, Crimson Peak (2015), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Asexual Sherlock Holmes, Consensual Possession, Dreams, Drug Use, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Light BDSM, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multiverse, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Romance, Sibling Incest, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-11 02:51:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15963128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcadias_Fire/pseuds/Arcadias_Fire
Summary: “An Englishman seduced her away. A baronet. I’m quite certain that he is only after her money, Mr. Holmes, but he’s a handsome devil and well spoken too. They married a few months ago. Mrs… Lady... Edith sold off the whole of her father’s estate and moved here to be with her new husband.”“Does her husband have a name, Dr. McMichael?”“Sir Thomas Sharpe.”Sherlock dreams of Victorian times, of strange lusts, and confusing realities. These dreams are a message - they always are - but for whom?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of "The Strange Path" and will not make any sense if you haven't read that series. 
> 
> Chapter 1 is a retelling of _Crimson Peak_ and therefore contains **SPOILERS** for that film. It takes place somewhere during Series 4 of _Sherlock_ and therefore contains spoilers for that as well. 
> 
> Chapter 2 has all the smut. 
> 
> Bear with me folks! This is a weird one.

 

Sherlock Holmes was either a busy man or a bored one. One or the other in turns, often changing from second to second. When he was bored - because life was  _ dull _ with no case in sight - he would turn to anything that would give him relief. Sometimes the violin was sufficient, or digging into mysteries of the past, but sometimes… sometimes none of those things were enough. 

 

Thus the cocaine. Or morphine. Or any other number of drugs - illegal and legal - in fascinating combinations. 

 

And sometimes those drugs, flowing through his system like lava or a hurricane, would result in very interesting dreams. 

 

He’d fallen asleep on the sofa. He knew that. Fallen asleep after riding out hours of the toxins in his blood lighting his brain up like Christmas. 

 

In the flat alone. 

 

Too alone. 

 

That was part of the problem. 

 

So when a gentle hand shook him awake, it was… surprising. 

 

“Holmes? Are you alright?”

 

Sherlock opened his eyes. John stood over him, wearing that ridiculous mustache again. Hair combed back and styled with product. A sniff told him it was… palmade? Another quick scan showed John in a tweed suit, not his usual jeans and hideous jumper. 

 

_ Oh no, not this again. _

 

“Yes, yes I’m fine.” Sherlock sat up. He wore the same silk dressing gown he’d fallen asleep in, but under it were starched pajamas rather than the soft jersey bottoms and tee-shirt he’d been wearing. “What time is it?” 

 

John pulled out a pocket watch. “Half three.” 

 

“Ah.” Sherlock rubbed his face and grimaced at the stubble on his cheeks. “I’d best shave.” 

  
“Erm, Holmes, we have a client waiting outside.” 

 

“A client?”

 

“Yes. Actually, he’s an old friend of mine, medical man from the States.” 

 

“Oh.” Sherlock held up a hand. “Don’t tell me anymore. Let him in.” 

 

“Are you certain you’d rather not… dress first?”

 

Sherlock shook his head. “If he’s a friend of yours, why stand on ceremony? Show him in.” 

 

John gave him a disbelieving look and went to the door. Sherlock got up off the couch, straightened his dressing gown and settled back into his usual chair. 

 

The man that John showed in was blond and well built. Handsome in a standard, straightforward way. A medical man, as John had said, old fashioned - current to the time - black doctor’s bag in his hand. American made clothing, high quality, but not excessively expensive. 

 

John waved a hand between them. “Dr. Alan McMichael, my friend and colleague, Sherlock Holmes.” 

 

Dr. McMichael walked forward, hand outstretched. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Holmes.” 

 

Sherlock ignored the hand in favor of looking the gentleman over. Misbuttoned shirt, mud on the cuffs of is trousers, hair slightly askew. Calluses on his fingers in unusual places. Interesting. He was a doctor, yes, but not a GP. This era meant that his usual methods weren’t entirely useful. He just didn’t know enough about the times. Not relevant in his usual life. “Please have a seat, doctor. J… Dr. Watson tells me you have a case for us?” 

 

The blond American frowned and sat. “It is quite urgent, I fear for my friend’s life.” His accent was from New York. Upstate. Funny how little that accent had changed over the years. At least some things were consistent.  

 

“More than a friend.” 

 

“I... “ McMichael’s eyes traveled from Sherlock to John and back again. “I had hoped Edith would condescend to being my wife, but she has married another.” 

 

“Ah. And you believe that her husband means her ill?”

 

“He is a blaggard of the first water, Mr. Holmes, I have proofs of that, but noone will listen to me.” 

 

The doctor reached for the medical bag at his side, but Sherlock waved a hand. “I believe you Dr. McMichael. I shall happily look at your proofs shortly, but first tell me your tale.” 

 

“Edith - Miss Cushing as she was then - has been my dearest friend since childhood, Mr Holmes. Her father is… was a wealthy man, but I’ve never cared about that. She’s a spirited lady, intellectual and quite lovely. I had hoped that she would come to see me as I see her, but…”

 

“But?”

 

“An Englishman seduced her away. A barronet. I’m quite certain that he is only after her money, Mr. Holmes, but he’s a handsome devil and well spoken too. They married a few months ago. Mrs… Lady... Edith sold off the whole of her father’s estate and moved here to be with her new husband.” 

 

Sherlock quirked a small smile at the American doctor’s discomfort at the British titing system and his inability to admit that his lady love had found another. “Does her husband have a name, Dr. McMichael?” 

 

“Sir Thomas Sharpe.” 

 

“Ah.” Sherlock shot to his feet and went to the row of books which held the  _ Who’s Who _ volumes. A poor substitute for the internet, but all that his Victorian counterpart had to offer. He flipped through the tome which held “S” and found his quarry. “Sir Thomas Sharp, of Allerdale Hall, last male of his line. Sister, Lucille.” Sherlock frowned down at the book. It was annoying to not have every record in existence at his fingertips. He felt that there should be more to this. He was missing something. There should be more. This dream self was intrigued and knew something as well. Sherlock closed his eyes and reached in, reached for the mind palace of this Victorian self who seemed to have an existence outside of Sherlock’s own. 

 

He dove down and down and down. This self was an echo. Or perhaps he was the echo? He looked up and saw that the deep well of reality he sat in was lit from above as well as below. That light above him, was that his own reality in 21st century London? Had he come down so far? Or was that a different reality all together? Sherlock shook his head and focused. The name Sharpe struck a chord all along his spine, up and down the well. Should he look up or down?

 

He chose down. 

 

His hand stole along to another volume on the shelf above the  _ Who’s Who _ s. Scrapbooks of crimes from the last decades. Eyes open barely a crack, Sherlock turned pages and pages, letting this other mind look for him. This was the Victorian Sherlock’s book, and he knew what he was looking for. Murder. Sherlock opened his eyes and took in the few pages of articles. 

 

“You’re quite right, doctor, your friend is in grave danger.” He snapped the scrapbook shut. “We shall travel at once.” He swept through the sitting room to his own bedroom. 

 

“But… don’t you want to look at the evidence I have?” Dr. McMichael held up his bag. 

 

“On the way, there’s no time!” Sherlock slammed the door behind him. 

 

Dressing took far more time that he’d like. Sherlock was almost tempted to ask John for help with the odd collar and cuffs, but realized it would be a poor idea. These Victorian incarnation had a sense of propriety which would have found that querry offensive in the extreme as well as confusing. Still, he managed, mostly by allowing this archaic self take over during the dressing process. 

 

“Bring your revolver, Watson,” Sherlock muttered to John as he left the bedroom. “I fear we shall need it.” 

 

John nodded and patted his pocket. Of course Sherlock had known that John already had the gun, but it was a good idea to encourage him from time to time. “Good man.” 

 

The trip to Allerdale Hall was interminable. Sherlock hated these tediously slow trains, and ignored John and Dr. McMichael as much as he could. He looked through the papers that the American brought with him, all of which confirmed his suspicions. Murdered parents, missing spouses, commitment to a mental asylum. The most recent Lady Sharpe was indeed in terrible danger.  

 

Something kept nagging at him though, that feeling like he was missing something terribly obvious. He’d had that same feeling before, the last time he’d encountered this antique self. This was different though. Like he’d seen this before and deleted it. Like one of those dull films that John liked, all boring romance and pointless action. 

 

Snow fell as they climbed off the train; found transportation - with the help of a large bribe - and took off for the Hall. 

 

Sherlock knew of the danger that this young woman was in. A slow, painful death awaited her, though not the one that Dr. McMichael feared. That warning from the last Victorian jaunt - don’t ignore women - was fresh in Sherlock’s mind as he’d gazed at the proofs of ill deeds. Sir Thomas wasn’t the killer Dr. McMichael though he was, his sister was the murderer of the pair. 

 

A man of the 21st century knew better than one of the 19th. The 20th century was an infant now, but the values and mores of the previous century lingered. This was still the Victorian age, and that meant far more than the individual year. 

 

The Hall was decrepit. Crimson clay bled up through the snow staining the pristine white. Dr. McMichael pounded on the door to be let in by a slight blonde who looked terribly ill, but pleased to see the American and surprised to see anyone with him. 

 

When the lord of the manner and his true lady - but not his  _ only _ lady, for he loved them both - appeared, Sherlock was overcome by a wave of dizziness. Disorientation and nausea welled up. He  _ knew _ this man. Thomas Sharpe, looking disheveled in his askew shirtsleeves and waistcoat. Beautiful contrast of black hair, pale skin, and sky colored eyes. This man was known to him. Nearly  _ was _ him. 

 

It made no sense. 

 

Sherlock didn’t think people were beautiful.  _ Ideas _ were beautiful, things might be beautiful, but people were problems to be solved, not objects of desire. And yet from somewhere deep inside of him there was a remembrance of kissing those lips. And from another direction, a recollection of kissing these women, both of them. He reeled under the sense memories. Neither of them had happened to Sherlock, but Sherlock felt them. Or had he done them and just deleted it? None of this made any sense. 

 

“Holmes, are you alright?” 

 

John’s hand was at his elbow, and Sherlock leaned into him. “I…” 

 

Sir Thomas stepped forward, his pale eyes fixed on Sherlock’s own. “Do I… know you?” 

 

“I… I don’t know.” 

 

“I feel like I do, but we’ve never met, have we?” 

 

Sherlock shook his head. “No.” And yet… Yes. He knew everything about this man, many of the details were obvious from looking at him, observing him and his sister and his wife. The strange love that he felt for both of them. That he felt he was damned, but still needed to prove himself, protect the women he loved. Protect them from each other, from themselves. 

 

But… but…

 

Sherlock shook himself. Reality was slipping away from him. But this wasn’t reality; it was a dream. And these dreams existed to  _ tell _ him something. Echoes of his mind palace, forgotten, deleted things. What was it? What was the message that his subconscious was trying to tell him? That he was one step from being a villain himself? Sherlock knew that. He was a killer - unlike Sir Thomas - and he knew it. He had killed to protect John, and John had killed to protect him. So that wasn’t the message. 

 

His eyes flitted from Sir Thomas to his sister/lover and his wife, the blonde, sunny Edith. That dynamic, that felt closer. Incest aside, a secret lover was hardly an unknown cause of strife in Sherlock’s life of investigating crime. A secret lover who was a killer. 

 

Sherlock didn’t have a lover. He didn’t need such things in his life. His friendship, companionship with John - as fraught as it was - was all he needed. John’s now-deceased wife had been a killer - she had nearly killed him - but that didn’t ring true either. 

 

This wasn’t about Sherlock.

 

How could it  _ not _ be about him? These dreams were messages for him, so…

 

Sherlock dropped to his knees, clutching at his temples. Agony stabbed through his head, a lancing pain as deleted memories came back. 

 

_ “You’re sure you’re not me from the future faking an American accent?” _

 

_ “If I was, do you think I’d tell you?” _

 

_ “No.” _

 

_ The strange American who looked so much like Sherlock smiled. “Well there you go.” _

 

_ “Who are you then?” _

 

_ “I’m a magician from another universe just trying to get home.” _

 

_ It was so unlikely, but the stranger’s words fit the facts, and were told without a hint of lie to his demeanor. A quote had drifted up into Sherlock’s consciousness from deep in his mind palace. “There are more things in heaven and earth.” _

 

_ The stranger in his mind grinned. “Exactly.” And then he’d vanished, leaving Sherlock alone again.  _

 

It had happened a while ago, that event, that dream/hallucination/I didn’t actually just talk to a being from another reality did I?  __ And he’d put it out of his mind, deleted it since it wasn’t relevant. How was it relevant now? None of these people looked like himself, other than Sir Thomas’s - and his sister’s - coloring being much the same as his own. That strange American he’d spoken to in his mind had been identical to himself save for his hair and age. 

 

But… no. Another wave of pain swept through him and Sherlock cried out again. He was vaguely aware of John hovering over him. Of a scuffle in the background as the villainess of this little play took advantage of the distraction that his suffering caused. He couldn’t focus on anything but the memories flooding him. 

 

_ “Tell me, Sherlock, has anything strange happened to you in the past few days?” _

 

_ “Stranger than waking up in an unfamiliar bed with a naked man that I’ve never met before? Actually, yes.” _

 

That’s what it was. The man called Loki who’d claimed to be a god possessing a human body. He looked like Sir Thomas, but his hair had been blond instead of black. But beyond their hair color, they were the same. Distinctive bone structure, even taller than himself. But that odd incident had been in his own time. The twenty-first century, not some dream of more than a century before. But it couldn’t be a coincidence. Duplication of self. Of body if not of mind. What did it mean? 

 

_ Secret lover. Killer. Loves them both. _

 

Sherlock shook his head, trying to clear the confusion and pain. Pulled up and out of the dream. Up to his own normal transport, up and up and up and over and up…

 

Until Sherlock wasn’t Sherlock anymore. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

A man - who was sometimes Sherlock Holmes, but not most of the time - awoke. His head ached furiously, even though when he’d gone to sleep he felt fine. Ben stirred into consciousness as dreams of Sherlock and his Victorian self flooded through his mind. 

 

Sherlock interacting with Thomas Sharpe was odd, but the Victorian incarnations were contemporaries, so it made a small degree of sense. Ben had been offered the role of Sir Thomas in  _ Crimson Peak _ , but he had to back out and Tom had taken the part instead. One of the many odd confluences in their lives. But it made sense that his subconscious had come up with that scenario. 

 

But Sherlock talking to Dr. Strange made less sense. And Loki? What on Earth? That was entirely too… heh… strange. 

 

Ben opened his eyes to see which bed he was sleeping in. Pre-dawn light flooded the understated bedroom through the large window. He glanced around and saw that he was in Tom’s flat, not his own house. The other actor was asleep, dreaming if the movement of his eyes under closed lids was any indication. His expression was… 

 

Oh my, Tom was having interesting dreams himself. Far more pleasant than Ben’s had been.  

 

Ben shook his head. His lover’s nocturnal arousal was not really any of his concern, was it? Dreams were just dreams, weren’t they? 

 

Why would he dream of Sherlock talking to Dr. Strange and Loki? That was just… odd. And why had Loki looked like Tom, rather than himself? They’d spoken in this room, the two strong willed almost-villains feeling one another out. And Loki had kissed Sherlock and Sherlock didn’t particularly care for it. And they had talked about… Tom? And Ben’s relationship with Tom, how it was neither exclusive, nor an affair. And Loki had…

 

Loki had wanted Tom. Had been seducing the other actor in his dreams. 

 

Tom’s current state of somnolent aroused interest took on a whole new dimension. 

 

Tom made a sound in his sleep, a familiar gasp/moan which Ben had heard many times over the years. A word, slurred by slumber, slipped out of his mouth. “...key.” 

 

Ben’s eyebrows went up. It was mad. Far too mad. Dreams and hallucinations. They meant nothing. But… 

 

_ Secret lover. Killer. Loves them both. _

 

In full recognition that he was probably mental, Ben reached out and shook Tom’s shoulder. “Tom, wake up.” 

 

“Mmmmm?” Tom opened his eyes, a post-coital smile on his lips. His eyes were blue, then gray-green, then blue again. “Ben?” 

 

Ben blinked. Tom’s eyes changed color depending on the light, but the light hadn’t changed. Tom hadn't moved. Maybe something... “Is… is ah, there something you think you should tell me, by any chance?” 

 

Tom blushed. “I…”

 

If he’d just been confused or denied anything, that would have been one thing. Ben would have dropped it. But Tom was a terrible liar. Ben had suspected that something was going on with the younger actor for weeks - ever since they’d gotten food poisoning on a date - but he hadn’t said anything, because their lives had gone on as usual. They saw each other once a week - while neither of them were travelling - and everything had seemed normal. Except… except Tom was distracted and… sleeping a lot. 

 

Ben frowned at his lover. “What’s been going on?” 

 

“I…” Tom covered his face with his hands. “You’ll think I’m mental.” 

 

Dreams of his own characters talking to each other in his head. Of his characters talking to  _ Tom’s. _ It was all mental. So either they were both mad or...

 

“Try me.” 

 

Tom sighed. “You remember when we went to that restaurant a few weeks ago and both became ill? That isn’t what happened.” 

 

Ben shivered and nodded. 

 

“We…” Tom peeked out from behind his long fingers. One eye was blue, the other gray. “We were taken over.”

 

“What?”

 

“It’s a long story.” 

 

Ben settled down, a frown on his brows. “I have time.” 

 

Tom sighed. “It’s all real, Ben. Every character we’ve ever played is real. They exist out there in their own universes.” He shivered and his brows drew down. “They’re as real as you or me. How… I don’t know what to do.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Tom closed his eyes and winced. “I… When they die, they really die.” 

 

“Oh.” So many of their characters were dead. Some of them more permanently than others, but still. “You’ve been seeing Loki in your dreams, haven’t you?” 

 

Tom nodded. “I think… I’m in love with him. And he’s… well, you know” 

 

Ben swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.” 

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, it’s just… how do you bring something like that up?” 

 

“It’s alright, I understand.” Technically, Tom had broken their rules. They always discussed taking on new lovers, but if Tom thought he was going mad - which was after all fairly logical - Ben understood why he wouldn’t have broached the subject. “Does he make you happy?”

 

“Yes.” Tom smiled his angel smile and Ben’s heart fluttered. 

 

“Does anything need to change with us?”

 

The younger actor shook his head. “Not unless you want it to.” 

 

“I’m not sure how I feel about you having sex with Loki while I’m here, but no, I don’t think so.” It was actually kinda hot, but also… weird.  

 

Tom blushed bright red. It was so cute when he did that. “If everything works out the way we hope, he may… will come here. Physically.” 

 

Ben’s eyebrows went up. “Huh. Would that change anything?” 

 

“Between us you mean? No, he doesn’t mind.” Tom paused and cocked his head to the side. “Oh, um…” he blushed again. “He thinks it would be fun to… ah, experiment. With all three of us.” 

 

Ben shuddered. He found Tom’s darker side incredibly sexy, and Loki was the personification of that. Normally he was the dominant one in the relationship, but if  _ Loki _ were involved too… “I’d be open to that.” 

 

Tom flushed and bit his lip. “Oh. Good.” His eyes fluttered. “God that sounds amazing.” 

 

Ben shifted a little closer. “Is he muttering filthy things in your head?” 

 

The younger man shivered and nodded. “Fuck. Yes.” 

 

Closer still. “Tell me?” 

 

“Shall I just tell you myself?” 

 

Ben looked up. Tom’s eyes had gone gray-green again, and a wicked smile graced his lips. Ben had dubbed this smile “I do what I want” for obvious reasons, and it was rare to see it on his lover’s face while he wasn’t acting, especially recently. The other man sat up, leaned over and caged Ben with his arms, effectively pinning him to the bed. 

 

Tom’s voice went darker, a deep black velvet struck through with a sharp blade of cruel sensuality. “Or would you rather have him tell you, with his adorable bashfulness? Would that be better?” His voice lightened, though his eyes stayed gray. “‘He wants to fuck you, Ben, while I watch, while I touch myself’?” Then dark again. “Or would you rather I tell you? I would take you, over and over until you scream my name, until you cannot walk for  _ days.” _

 

Ben’s heart tried to escape his chest. “L… Loki?”

 

Tom… Loki… grinned. “You believe now, do you not? That I live within your lover just as your counterparts live within you? How it distresses Strange that he and I are only a step from being lovers.” He laughed and shook his head. “You mortals are ridiculous.” 

 

“You seem to like some of us.” 

 

Loki chuckled. “True enough.” He leaned in and Ben thought that their lips would meet, but Loki stopped short of kissing him. “I find you… interesting.” 

 

Ben licked his lips. “I really meant Tom.” 

 

“I know.” Again, that shark-like smile. “He is wonderful, though I’m sure I needn’t tell you that. How wise of you to not let him go after all of these years.” Loki leaned down further, brushed his cheek against Ben’s. “Not all mortals are fools.” 

 

The older man’s breath hitched. “It… it was a near thing.” 

 

“I know that too.” Those words were muttered in Ben’s ear. “He’s told me everything.” 

 

Ben shuddered as Tom/Loki’s breath caressed his ear and neck. “I…”

 

“Would it be breaking your rules if I fucked you? Would that ‘count’ as a new lover? I inhabit your own lover’s body, after all, though he rarely uses you thus.” Teeth bit down on Ben’s earlobe hard enough that he was unable to smother his reaction. He cried out, bucked up his hips, and met solid, hard flesh above. “But you would love for me to make use of you. I would take you, possess you. Make you mine.” Loki bit down on his neck and Ben groaned. 

 

“Oh god.” 

 

“Exactly.” Loki lowered his hips. Pressed their hard cocks together and Ben shuddered. “Though I’m afraid that I haven’t access to all of my… resources in this form. But I’m certain you would find it a… worthwhile experience.” 

 

“Is… is Tom in there with you?”

 

Loki smiled and his eyes went blue again. “Of course I am. You didn’t think I’d miss out on this, did you?” 

 

“You’re okay with this?”

 

“Darling, it’s amazingly sexy. I just wish I could be there too.” 

 

“Me too.” 

 

“Soon enough.” That was Loki again. “But in the meantime…” He leaned down again and captured Ben’s lips with his own. It wasn’t anything like kissing Tom. Loki kissed with teeth and tongue, biting Ben’s lower lip until he gasped. Invaded his mouth with tongue and lips, like an army looking for victory. Ben couldn’t help but surrender. Couldn’t help but pull the god closer, welcoming the breach of his defenses. 

 

He was intimately familiar with Tom’s body. They’d been lovers for many years with only a few pauses. Their schedules meant that they rarely saw one another enough, but they made it work. Having other people helped, a wife for him, girlfriends - and the occasional boyfriend - for Tom. But the experience of facing another person in a familiar body was… novel. He knew that Tom loved to have his throat bitten, but Loki pulled away from having his neck touched anywhere other than the sides. So Ben licked and sucked at the tendons in his neck, but left the delicate adams apple alone. Tom was ticklish along his sides, but Loki was not. Tom was fairly ambivalent about having his nipples touched, Loki loved it. Tom usually let him guide their love-making, but Loki took the lead and ran with it. 

 

Ran his hands down Ben’s sides, fingertips just short of tickling. Licked and bit his nipples, just edging into pain. Ben groaned and ground his hips into Loki’s stomach, cock rubbing against the hard muscle. Loki licked and sucked and bit down his chest, to his stomach, the swallowed his cock down. Ben cried out and resisted the urge to thrust into that gorgeous pink mouth as it surrounded him. As it was, his hips twitched and inhumanly strong hands took ahold of them and pressed his arse down to the bed. Ben was pinned and the message was clear: my show, you don't move. He did his best to obey. 

 

Ben gasped as the silver tongue teased him, wrapped around the head of his cock, then went flat, lapping like a cat. He groaned as Loki sucked hard, then soft, then hard again. Bobbed his head up and down, tongue sliding along with a teasing touch. 

 

Ben moaned as long, well lubed fingers found his entrance and worked him open. Familiar fingers in unfamiliar patterns. They almost never fucked this way. Tom preferred to be taken and Ben preferred to take, though occasionally they’d switch. Even so, this was different. 

 

Two of Loki’s fingers slid inside him now, stretching, twisting, teasing in an unfamiliar way that felt amazing. Ben shouted as a fingertip found his prostate and… tickled. 

 

He half laughed, half moaned, back arching up off the bed. “Oh god, what are you doing?” 

 

Loki chuckled around Ben’s cock in his mouth. That felt amazing too. A low vibration that went to his core. He moaned and instinctively reached down to bury his hands in his lover’s curls but stopped himself just in time. If Loki didn’t want Ben’s hips to move, the god would not appreciate his head touched now. So Ben reached above him instead and gripped a rail on the headboard. He moaned as Loki did something amazing with his tongue and found Ben’s prostate again. Whimpered as a third finger joined the first two; a stretching burn that was just barely painful. But his fingers curled again, and that talented tongue teased the head of his cock again and the pain faded into the background as Ben was nearly overwhelmed by pleasure. He bit back a mewling cry and bit his own wrist. “Please.” 

 

Loki pulled his mouth free of Ben’s cock with a pop. “You’re ready for me to fuck you?”

 

“Oh god, yes.” 

 

The god licked a quick stripe from base to crown along the underside of Ben’s cock and chuckled. He reached for the lube again and coated Tom’s very familiar cock with a shaking hand. Loki’s eyes fluttered shut, his hand paused, then began to move with more intent. A slow, sensual wank, much like what Ben had observed his lover use when Tom was putting on a show for him. “I… stop… please… later.” 

 

The hand stopped and Ben’s eyebrows went up. Had that been… Tom? 

 

Loki’s gray-green eyes opened, pupils hugely black with lust. He bit his lip and looked down at Ben. “I shall take you now.” 

 

It wasn’t a question, but Ben nodded anyway. 

 

Loki shifted down, lifted Ben’s hips, and slid home in a swift decisive move. They both moaned as Loki bottomed out, hips tight against Ben’s arse. They lay there for a long moment and breathed. Ben twitched his hips encouragingly and Loki chuckled. Slid out and back. 

 

Ben tried to sit up, but Loki pushed him back down. Tom was taller than Ben, but not significantly stronger. Loki held him down with one hand and piercing glare. Thrust in, filling him up. Shifted his hips oh so slightly, and the next thrust his Ben’s prostate. He surrendered completely. Let the god have control. Another thrust and he gasped. Moaned on the next hit. Cried out on the third. “Oh god.” 

 

“You called?” Loki’s voice was full of laughter, though he didn’t slow in the slightest.

 

“Just…”  Ben whimpered. “Just keep fucking me.”

 

The other man laughed and picked up the pace. Adjusted Ben’s hips again so that he was hitting that sweet spot every other thrust. It was so much. Too much. Not quite enough. “Please please please.” The words flooded out. “Fuck, please, oh god, oh fuck, please.” He whimpered and moaned, the words spilling out fast and faster. “More, please, touch me, fuck me, harder!” 

 

A long hand wrapped around his cock, sliding along, lube-slicked, stroking him in time with the thrusts. Harder, harder, faster, more than should be humanly possible. Ben lost complete control of his mouth and was reduced to a long whining cry before he came, shouting, spattering his stomach and chest, stars bursting behind his eyes and then darkness. 

 

He was faintly aware of Loki withdrawing from him, rolling away. Words spoken in nearly identical voices right by his side. 

 

“I want to finish you, may I?”

 

“Oh Norns, yes.” 

 

“Let me in.” 

 

“Yes.” The word hissed out and Loki’s voiced cracked. “Oh my sweet mor… oh. Aahhhh.” 

 

Ben managed to open his eyes and look over. Tom/Loki lay on his back, left hand clutching in his hair, right slowly stroking his cock. His mouth was open, an “o” of pleasure on those perfect pink lips. 

 

“You’re so beautiful like this.” He spoke in Tom’s voice. “I wish I could see you from the outside.” 

 

“Soon…” Loki replied. “More, please beloved, more. I’m so… so close… so...” 

 

Ben watched as Tom’s hand moved faster. Watched as Loki’s expression dissolved into pure bliss, watched as he came, crying out - a noise that Tom never made, a keening wail, like the pleasure was being forced from him. Watching as Tom’s hand slowed, stopped. Came to rest just below his navel, then ran a finger through the come on his stomach and chest. Brought it up to his mouth. Loki’s silver/pink tongue snuck out and licked. The finger ran along his lower lip, a light trace, leaving a white trail behind. He licked his lip, sucked the finger into his mouth, moaned and shuddered. 

 

Ben shuddered with him. Them. 

 

The other man turned to face him, a lopsided smile gracing those sweet, kiss swollen, come smeared lips. One eye was blue, the other gray-green. He blinked, and both eyes were blue again. Tom smiled. “Hello darling.” 

 

“Oh my god, Tom, what the fuck?” 

 

Tom laughed. “Just think of what it’ll be like when he’s here in his own body.” 

 

“I’m not sure I’ll survive that.” 

 

“You’ll love it.” 

 

“Oh probably.” Ben reached out. “Come over here.” 

 

Tom shifted over into the circle of his arms and lay his head on Ben’s shoulder. “I am sorry I didn’t tell you.”

 

“Shut up, it’s sleeping time.”

 

Tom gave a quiet laugh. “Alright, we can talk later.” 

 

“Mmmm. Sleep now, talk later.” 

 

Ben drifted off, wondering what was going on in Tom’s head. If he and Loki were fucking there even while Tom slept in his arms. He decided - as oblivion claimed him - that he actually didn’t care. Whatever made Tom happy was fine with Ben.

 

That’s how it always had been for them. There was no reason for that to change. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Benedict Cumberbatch was indeed the original cast for Thomas Sharpe, and wow would that have been a different movie. 
> 
> I've also discovered it's way easier for me to write smut if it's weird. Normal sex between consenting adults... meh, possession and light BDSM, yes, certainly!
> 
> Also, I love that there's a tag called "Consensual Possession" and make it my mission for this to come up again.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been trying to figure out a way to combine _Crimson Peak_ with _Sherlock_ for a while, and I finally figure it out!!


End file.
